He's American, Sherlock
by GenderBender25
Summary: "I can only explain it like this," he turned to look Sherlock in the face and said very seriously, "he's American, Sherlock." Or, i woke up one morning and was like, 'Oh! cool idea' Rated t for slight swearing, a dead body, and brief mentions of sexuality. Also: this is CRACK! Kind of...
1. The America(n)

*unrelated note: if there were two passwords, and she liked Sherlock, so the one that opened it was "I am 'Sher' Locked" does that make the other one that would destroy everything, "'John' Locked?" Just wondering. ;)

*This is the "Alfred F. Jones in the show Sherlock." Lets see how it goes. Just a heads up: this is pure crack. There, said it. I just had an idea and ran with it.

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Rain. Gosh-diddly-darn rain again! This is why he hates visiting England. Er, the country not the personification,. he has other reasons for that one. Anyway, RAIN!

_Bobby its raining :(_

_again_

_BOBBY!_

_comeon bro, u no i hate being left in the hotel with nothing to do! and its raaaiiining_

Alfred F. Jones sighed as he tossed his phone onto the nightstand and flopped backwards on the bed. It was not uncommon for his travel companion to ignore him, but they had a strict "texts are a must answer, even if it is a 'shut up' or assume dead" of course, this didn't mean he was dead. Alfred had left him at the bar - "Pub" a small part of his brain supplied, to which he returned, "Don't care." - at the mercy of all those females who simply adored his charms. Charmes he prefered to use on men.

Alfred sighed and flipped off the bed to grab his phone and check it for any messages he may have gotten but ignored.

**From: Boss**

**Time: 10/11/14. 09:33**

_Your next assignment is sent to your email. Check it this time Alfred. _

**From: Twinsie**

**Date: 10/14/14. 15:41**

_where are you al? we had a marathon planned :( _

**Date: 10/14/14. 16:00**

_ALFRED! your doing it again! STOP DOING IT!_

**Date: 10/14/14. 16:09**

_at least tell me where the assignment is ths time_

**From: Brother dearest**

**Date: 10/15/14. 01:28**

_Are you in my nation? Why are you in Great Britain?_

**Date: 10/15/14. 01:35**

_I was just informed of the meeting. Sorry. See you there then._

Alfred sighed and deleted all the messages. Today was the sixteenth of October and he had a meeting with British diplomats tomorrow. One that was really Bobby's job, he was just there for formalities and as an excellent cover for his real intentions. One that would have to be completed directly after the meeting with England or he would know about it.

A sudden thought struck Alfred, urging him to check the clock. When he did, it read 9:17. Alfred let out a vulgar curse and hurriedly snatched his boots, nondescript leather jacket, shoved his phone in his pocket and rushed out of the hotel, shoving reflective wrap-arounds on as he did so.

If Bobby had not contacted him since the time he left him at the bar, something was wrong. They both knew the dangers they faced, and Bobby never got drunk enough to not text him, if he lost his phone he either borrowed one or returned to the current hotel they were staying in. It couldn't be a one-night stand either, he only did those on actually diplomatic trips.

Alfred resisted the urge to tug at his cowlick, a habit he picked up for when he was really nervous. As a nation himself, he had a connection with his people, able to read anything he needed to about them. The drawback? Only through direct contact or when in his country. That left him with a sick feeling in his stomach, he had traveled with Bobby for years now, to diplomatic meetings, peace conventions, the odd situation an embassy was needed in, and oh yes, the missions. Bobby was not a spy, warrior, or in any way trained for what he and Alfred did. He did have amazing lying skills and the ability to charm victims out of their secrets and possessions.

The street buzzed with early morning life of people heading to work and whatnot. Alfred ignored the passersbys and hailed a cab, jumping in and rambling off the address of the bar they had gone to last night to scope for their target. He hadn't been there so Alfred left to follow other leads while Bobby stayed behind to try and chat up the interesting dude on the other side of the room. Alfred smirked at the memory of Bobby slicking his hair back and quipping, "Wish me luck" to which Alfred always responded, "Wear protection!"

As the taxi pulled away, Alfred opened up his tracing app (courtesy of Tony who had nothing better to do) and clicked on Bobby's face. The app searched for a minute before showing up with an address. "Wait, I just got the text of my new stop, sorry," Alfred said to his driver with an apologetic grin. The driver grumbled but did infact take him to the address.

Unfortunately, they weren't the only ones there. The taxi driver chuckled something about having a "bloody good day" and drove off before Alfred could pay him. Not that he noticed, he was focused on the cop cars, yellow tape, and gutted body laying under a message on the brick wall that loomed over the ally with damp shadows.

The rain had stopped.

There are times when the world stops. Times when nothing mattered except for that second, that fleeting second that allowed for one of two things: reaction, or non reaction. Alfred was a reactor, but this time, his only reaction was to observe. Bobby laid sprawled out, torso cut open and his guts pulled cleanly off to the left side of him. Alfred would have said it was a field dressing done on a human, but the message written in blood that was clearly Bobby's clearly ruled out a nice little hunting trip.

"Oi! What are you doing?" Alfred shot a glance at the man who yelled, he had salt and pepper hair, and an air of superiority, leading Alfred to assume he was the lead cop/detective/inspector. As the man stalked toward him, Alfred ducked under the tape and straightened his back into his military stance. "This is a crime scene, no civilians."

Alfred responded by stating, "That man lying eviscerated is Robert D. Stinson and a United States diplomat. I am his apprentice and partner. As he had, and I have, a diplomatic immunity, I suggest you start talking."

Alfred was very much aware his leather jacket, combat boots, and reflective shades did not give off a friendly impression. And he was so far past caring. "DI Lestrade and I'm not sure if-" Alfred cut him off with a, "please," and he sighed, bringing him over to the body. "A pedestrian called it in, I'm guessing the message is for you then?"

Happy Hunting _Eagles_

"Close enough," Alfred responded. "Do you have any leads?"

"Ye-" Lestrade was interrupted by a thin, charcoal haired man in a black trench coat. "The body was rinsed out by the rain, though the message remains due to the slight overhang of the roof. This tells us the murderer went through great stakes to make sure the message was still there, question is, why? Why would a killer find a location where his message would stay longer when who he meant it for might not even find the place? Because he knew that you, " he pointed a finger at Alfred, "would have some way of tracking the victim and would not allow for a large amount of time to pass before searching for him, proven by the fact that you are indeed here now."

As the man spoke in rapid fire and gestured about, Alfred allowed his hands to slide behind his back in a fake clasp that would allow him to grab his gun if necessary. The man whirled on Alfred started on a new train of thought that made the American tense with unease. "You are not an embassy, normal embassies don't carry guns on their person at all times. Also, judging by your posture, you are a military man, too young to be ex and in too high a position to be dismissed, so reassigned. Tell me, does your boss know you were in a relationship with this… Robert? I would assume not, but Americans always have had different approaches to work-lovelife interactions."

There was an intense moment of silence over the crime scene, two tall young men staring each other down. Alfred had the vague sense to wonder,_ Is this guy a shipper?_ Finally, it was broken when Alfred burst out into a round rowdy, bend-over-slapping-knee laughter. When he caught his breath, he slipped his shades off and wiped the tears from his eyes before saying, "Alright, I get it. This is a joke, right?" His question was met with awkward silence.

"Ah, sorry about Sherlock, I'm afraid he's always like that," a voice said from off to the left of Alfred. He turned to regard the man and took a second to blink away his surprize. The man was small, built with muscle but putting on some undesirable wight, and his blond hair was starting to grey. Not a man who would ordinarily catch Alfred's attention, but the fact that he recognized him, and from the look on the army doctor's face, he did too. Alfred gave him a look that said, "We'll talk later," and instead said, "So he's not kidding?"

To which the newly named Sherlock answered, "I never 'kid.'" The DI who had let him looked obviously uncomfortable and glanced down to inspect his oh-so-interesting shoes. Alfred could feel his New Yorker in him coming out as he slightly swaggered closer to the brunet and lowered his head to stare at him in a slightly tilted manner. "Well I hope for your sake, right now you just did. 'Cuz I've half a mind to beat yo ass just for saying such a thing when my buddy over ther'" Alfred flicked his head to dead Bobby, "just got murdered," Alfred said, punctuating his words with various hand gestures and shifting in his stance. Sherlock furrowed his brows at Alfred and opened his mouth- hopefully to apologize- and said, " You…. You have multiple personality disorder?" He finished his question, that was really more of a statement, in a whisper so only Alfred could hear.

Alfred backed up and licked his lips as he regarded this man. Obviously a very smart but socially stupid man, probably a consultant to the cops judging by how he was investigating this with them, and future dead man if he kept talking. Alfred turned to the DI Lestrade and thanked him, giving him his contact information and telling him to call when he got anything new on the murder of his friend. After turning right when he exited the alley, he leaned against a nearby lamppost and waited for his old acquaintance (army friend?) to leave the crime scene.

When the M.D. Captain did leave the taped-off area, he headed straight for the American, with the annoying consultant behind him. Alfred pushed off the pole and gave him a cocky grin along with a, "Hey, Doc." To which he gave a slight punch on the arm and a, "See you're still turning up in rubbish situations." After a brief pause in which the two former military sized each other up, Sherlock broke in saying, "Hate to interrupt, but how do you know John?"

Alfred couldn't help but giggle and shake his head, "Oh, the usual, I almost killed him then he took a bullet out of my leg. He put the bullet there though." It was a pretty funny time, Alfred had been on a solo mission to take out a sniper that was giving friendly forces trouble and ended up taking an iffy shot that nearly caused the M.D. his life. Not that he didn't return fire, thinking Alfred was a threat and sending a wad of metal into his leg. But it had all worked out in the end.

John gave him a frown before noting, "I was aiming for your head, if you hadn't tried to backflip away it would have been fine." The two ex soldiers shared a smile, John having treated his leg, knew that he had special healing powers that would have allowed him to live, but Sherlock was obviously thinking John meant Alfred would have been dead. "I'm sorry, am I intruding?" Sherlock asked in a way that made Alfred raise an eyebrow.

"Thought you were sticking to the 'no-no on de boyz' rule?" Alfred winked to make sure John got the message.

He did, seeing the wink made him tense and grind out, "I am _not_ gay. Sherlock and I are _not_-"

Alfred waive his comment away with the scientific fact, "Of course not. When in life-threatening situations, the human instinct for survival and the urge to reproduce spikes. Its a mechanism that creates considerable amounts of gays in war."

Alfred bit his lip to keep from the witting smile trying to force its way onto his countenance. Especially when Sherlock started inquiring if- no, when John had engaged in sexual acts with fellow comrades. The look on John's face was priceless.

"At least I'm not an inexperienced virgin like Alfred over here," he muttered into the collar of his sweater. Honestly, it just made him look fat, and showed none of his muscle. Why did he wear that thing? Alfred blinked when he realized what the doctor had said. "But I… I'm not a virgin." He frowned at the ground. It was not the best memory for him and definitely not recent. In fact, he was pretty sure it had scared him for life and warded him off from ever taking the offers from either humans or countries.

Sherlock squinted at him and started to say, "You were ra-" but he never finished because at that moment, Alfred flung his arm out and clotheslined a seemingly random passerby. Of course this passerby pulled out a gun and started off on a tangent that was ignored by Alfred. All Alfred knew was that this punk had been his mission and had killed his best human friend. That pissed Alfred off.

The fight was not spectacular, Alfred had no interest in humoring the black list assassin and simply used a sequence of Krav Maga on the ruffian and had him on the ground in three seconds, sporting one broken collarbone, a fractured rib or three, a few lost teeth, and a shattered wrist if Alfred had to guess the injuries. He cracked his neck and hoisted the unconscious man onto his shoulder, and swagged(Alfred will later affirm that anyone in his situation would do so) his way around the corner to drop the man at the feet of the English police who were just starting to pack up.

He bowed and said, "Interrogate him when he wakes up, he did it. Then you will be handing him over to the American authorities who will ask for him. Thank you, for your cooperation."

Alfred turned on his heel and marched across the street, disappearing when a bus passed and the cops, consultive inspector, and doctor lost sight of him.

John Watson was left with a curious sense of deja vu as he recalled the American doing the exact same thing but only with dead bodies and destroyed bases.

"John, you know how much it pains me to even ask but-" Sherlock trailed off hoping John would understand what he wanted. Thankfully he did.

"That's just how Special Ops. Eagle Level* Alfred F. Jones works Sherlock. I can only explain it like this," he turned to look Sherlock in the face and said very seriously, "he's American, Sherlock."

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*I completely made up eagle level but im sure the loveable hamburger-eater would make that a rank for himself. hm, wonder why it is always hamburgers and never hotdogs? Are the "not-dicks" not good enough for Japanese? oh wait, think I answered my own question.

So that was fun. The characters are a bit off, I tried to keep John and Sherlock as on point as I could but when it comes to Hetalia, I figure each country has several sides. Let's just say this was America's warmonger side.

**Tell me what you think, I love reviews but keep in mind this was just a random thought I had and wanted to have fun with it so I did, not to be taken seriously. **


	2. Alfred meets inner turmoil

As soon as Alfred was across the street he was running.

Running.

Sprinting.

Bolting.

Dashing.

Fleeing.

Hightailing it out of there.

He had to get away. His blood was pounding in his ears, a constant rhythm with every footfall. He was moving too fast. Everything was blurring past, many shouts whizzed past him, too far behind him to be heard.

Alfred halted in front of the hotel, barely keeping himself from bolting through the entranceway. His steps were measured. Stiff. He never gave the elevator a glance. As soon as the door to the stars was closed behind him he was jumping up. His hands grasped the railing above him and he pulled himself up, then used his feet to launch himself up again. He continued this process until he reached the floor his room was on. Then he nearly burst the door open and charged to where his room was.

Alfred barely managed to swipe his key before falling into the room, shades being cast off to allow the tears to stream down his face as sobs tore past his throat. His body shook violently.

Alfred hated this. Hated how his people would die but he never would. They could suffer pain and that be the last thing the ever know. If he suffered pain, he knew it would get better eventually.

But Bobby? His last memories would be of death. And Alfred hadn't been there to save him. Bobby suffered and died because he had been over his head on a mission he was never trained to do. It was Alfred's job to carry out the mission. Bobby just lied, read people, and pulled information out of them in humane ways. He was never trained to defend himself. That was part of Alfred's job. Get the mission done, and protect his people.

It was pure luck the Mission had shown back up at the crime scene. Something about criminals always returning. Alfred didn't care. He never did. It never made the pain go away.

Alfred heaved in a raspy breath and pulled himself off the floor. Once again he had to add a name to his list of lost friends. Bobby was one of the best. He never treated Alfred like a higher being or anything other than a close friend. Bobby was only 34 years old. He had climbed so high in the government jobs for one so young.

And now it was over.

Alfred stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. He splashed cold water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. He tried to piece himself back together.

This always happened when he lost one of his close citizens. He would deliver the news to Bobby's family. But for now, he had to prepare for the fallout of Bobby's murder.

******He hated this. **


End file.
